


Rest of Our Lives and Counting

by ThisCatastrophe



Category: Naruto
Genre: Bondage, Established Relationship, Fluffy Ending, M/M, Power Dynamics, Sex Toys, Strip Tease, alternate setting, it's bali., misuse of chakra strings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 05:18:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15942569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisCatastrophe/pseuds/ThisCatastrophe
Summary: Deidara wants to do something special to celebrate his and Sasori's three-year anniversary of escaping the shinobi world and their old lives. But plans never go like you want them to.





	Rest of Our Lives and Counting

**Author's Note:**

> Another short commission! It's my first time writing SasoDei, so this was fun to work on.

To get back home, Deidara has to pass under a statue of a thousand-armed god.

It never fails to disturb him. Even now, three years after his last glimpse of the shinobi world, the Akatsuki hideouts, the disgusting cities and grimy electric hookups and dilapidated slums. Even after he can’t quite remember what the Statue of the Outer Path looked like, or what finger he used to stand on.

Sasori says it’s a patently ridiculous feeling to have. When they walk together under the thousand-armed god, it’s a gate into a bright and beautiful city, where long, flat houses sit spread apart on broad gardens. The god itself, he says, is a fertility spirit. That many-toothed mouth smiles down on young mothers and children.

It still makes him nervous. But really, it’s the only downside to their new home.

The last house in town—their house—sits on several acres of thick grass, with a winding dirt path leading to a stilt structure behind a grove of palm trees. Several fired-clay sculptures line the pathway (all priced, Deidara is quick to tell visitors), alongside a few wooden pieces, kinetic and waving in the breeze, collaborations with Sasori. A bird shows off its tufts of white and yellow feathers from the broad leaves of a young palm before fluttering away into the forests that surround the city.

He climbs the stairs and lets the stress of a day of guard work fall away. Tonight is special. Tonight is a liminal space, with no room for irritation and work worries and the pressures of the outside world.

Tonight is the anniversary of the rest of their lives.

Deidara looks over their sparse living room: the lightweight furniture, the displayed photos of Iwa and Suna, the small works-in-progress scattered on low worktables. It’s comfortable, but tonight? Simply won’t do. He rolls up the sleeves of his light shirt and starts re-arranging.

* * *

“Brat,” Sasori calls out. “I’m back.”

All the way outside, down at the bottom of the steps, he could already feel something amiss. Once a shinobi, always a shinobi, he’s heard, and though years of light mercenary work and boring guard shifts have dulled him, he’s sure there will always be a paranoid shinobi soul resting in his wooden shell. He gives Deidara the benefit of the doubt, but primes one of the blades that still sit waiting in his wrists nonetheless.

He didn’t expect a redecoration.

“Ah,” he mutters, shutting the door behind him. The room’s been opened up, with furniture stacked and pushed against the walls and projects moved together onto one table. In the center of the room is a wide, soft-looking cloth, richly dyed, and a spread of light snacks and alcohol.

And in the very center, Deidara, reclining in his best moss-green kimono.

Sasori makes a sound that imitates a sigh and kneels in front of Deidara, plucking a bit of the kimono between his fingers. “You moved our living room around for this? You’re such a pain. And why’d you put out snacks?”

“Don’t be so picky, my man.” Deidara slumps on the cloth throw, rolling onto his back. A slender leg shows through his partially-untied kimono; Sasori glances away instinctively. “Maybe the snacks and the drinks are for me. Because we’re both celebrating, you know.”

“Celebrating?”

With a fake scoff of hurt, Deidara sits up, slapping a hand to his chest. “My man! It’s been three years to the day since we left our old lives! Don’t tell me you forgot?”

Sasori turns away just enough to reach for a bottle of red rice rum and a sake glass, smuggled away with their precious few belongings when the two finally escaped the tangles of the Akatsuki and the shinobi world. The amber liquor shimmers in golden-hour light when it’s poured, and he offers it with a scowl to his partner. “I didn’t forget. I got you something for the occasion, actually.” He pauses, capping the bottle and setting it aside. “Though it seems you’re bent on outdoing me.”

Deidara watches the liquor spin in the cup—momentary beauty—before he bolts it. A little dash of liquid courage never hurt. “Maybe. Or maybe I just have a  _ particular _ surprise for you.”

With a chuckle, he sets the cup in Sasori’s hands, then pushes away on his knees. He comes to rest bent-legged, the chest of his robe falling open just slightly—the perfect amount—one thigh exposed to the hip. 

“My man, relax for a while. I know you probably had a long day, so…” He trails off, slowly untying his hair until it hangs ruffled around his shoulders, half-covering his face. “Let me make this good for you.”

There’s a long, smooth roll in Deidara’s shoulders as he shrugs away the jacket, reflected in his waist when he pulls the kimono apart. The fabric pools in his lap, leaving a bit of hip-bone exposed, and he takes a minute to lean back to show off his belly.

The last three years have been kind to Deidara. One of the perks of dating someone a little younger, Sasori thinks. Of course, there was one day when Sasori would have been annoyed at the blonde body hair, the little pockets of fat, the hardened calluses, the way all these signs of middle adulthood hint at a beauty that could have been eternal if only someone intervened. No. They’re signs of life lived and continued. Deidara’s grown into his prime.

He chuckles low in his throat, running a hand curiously over his own chest, and Sasori steps back from his hazy reminiscence. This isn’t entirely like Deidara; he seems confident, but a little too… practiced. As if he’s performing. Clean, pointed, and not entirely fluent.

Sasori reaches forward, whip-quick, and throws the kimono aside.

Deidara slips right back into his usual role: he screams. “My man, you’re gonna ruin it!” Hastily, he throws his hands over his groin, shoulders rising, nose wrinkling. “Come on, just let me be the leader, here! Watch me!”

“The leader?” Sasori shifts forward on his knees and presses his knuckles against one of Deidara’s thighs.”Just what do you mean by leader? Do you—”

“—I wanna be on top, Sasori, come on.” 

He pauses. “Deidara, I really don’t think that’s what being the ‘leader’... whatever that means. I don’t think that’s what it means.”

“Change my mind, my man.”

“That sounds like a challenge.” Sasori feels the manufactured grin spread across his face. Deidara freezes for just a second, just long enough for him to push the hands away and to slip into his lap; his partner’s cock is already hard against the crook of Sasori’s thigh. “You’re really sure you’re up to it?”

To his credit, Deidara’s grin is just enough to save face. The way he presses against Sasori, not quite needy but certainly wanting, is almost breathtaking. 

Almost.

“I’m absolutely certain I’m up to it.”

* * *

He’s really not up to it.

He does a good job when Sasori stretches himself out and only whimpers once (though Sasori counts it as a failure out of hand; Deidara knows damn well that there’s no reason to stretch when your body’s synthetic), and he makes a good show of bucking into him on the first thrust, but it’s all downhill from there.

The moment Sasori leans back, taking Deidara in fully, and manifests the first bits of chakra strings from his fingertips, Deidara whines and curls his hands into little fists. “Really, that’s a little pathetic,” Sasori mutters. He reaches out and grabs Deidara’s wrists, completely without struggle, and slowly begins to cast chakra strings around them.

“Fine, I lose,” his partner whines. “Do whatever you want with me, please.” 

“Whatever I—”

“—tie me up, use me, you know what I mean.” Deidara arches as he reclines back and presses a cheek against the cloth that covers the living room floor. “Come  _ on _ .”

“Hm.” Sasori shifts to fold his thighs, bouncing shallowly as he pulls Deidara’s wrists off to one side, just above his head. Beneath him, his partner pants and writhes, far too worked up for how little stimulation he’s receiving. “In that case, would you like to see the present I got you?”

“Right now? Sasori—”

“It’s timely.” With his free hand, Sasori casts a chakra string across the room and drags his jacket closer from its place thrown over a table. “You’ll enjoy it.”

From a hidden pocket in the jacket’s chest he produces a straight crystal wand with a taper—opal, rainbow shiny, and clear in certain spots. There’s a gentle taper to it, down to a thick, hefty handle. Sasori spins it expertly in his palm, grinding back on Deidara’s hips, and slides it into his mouth slowly until a thin line of synthetic saliva drips down to his chest. “Well?”

Deidara gasps and clenches his hands, the bones of his wrists digging into the chakra threads. “That, on top of all of this? Can you take that? Please—”

“Not for me, stupid.” Sasori looks over the wand again and leans back, dropping Deidara’s now-tied wrists to his stomach. “You know that I designed myself to accommodate you and only you.”

“Then…”

Without a word, Sasori rises and pulls away, only to settle himself back on Deidara’s cock in an odd position: facing away from his partner, one of Deidara’s legs trapped with the knee forced up to his chest, exposing his ass completely. With a smile, he traces the wand down an exposed inner thigh. “It’s for you, of course. Happy anniversary.”

A set of blue strings burst from Sasori’s left hand, winding around Deidara’s wrists and torso until his hands are tightly pinned to his chest. The cold tip of the wand circles his hole teasingly. “Though, I was thinking,” he mutters, “If you don’t  _ want _ your present, should I still give it to you? Or maybe I should wait…”

Underneath, Deidara shudders. “Please, Sasori,” he whimpers. “Stop teasing—”

The statement breaks off into a moan as the wand slips in. Deidara rolls his hips desperately, all at once shifting up to thrust into Sasori and down to impale himself on the wand. Instinctively, he flexes against the binds.

“Good?” Sasori asks. “I picked a good present, brat?” The wand, already lubricated from Sasori’s mouth, slides easily in until Sasori’s knuckles press into his partner’s balls. He draws it out until the tip almost slips free, then slams it back home.

Some undignified crying noise escapes Deidara. “More, more,” he sobs; his toes curl tight, yet another thing for Sasori to tease him about.

The thrusts are rough and fast. He’s gotten used to this kind of treatment from Sasori, but the lewd poses, sometimes borderline-exhibitionistic, always make his stomach twist. Everything about this one—the hands tied to his chest like a shy schoolgirl, the leg pinned under Sasori’s weight—excites that part of Deidara that always liked to be ordered around. The pressure around his cock remains constant, but Sasori’s hips only grind slowly against his own as the wand pounds away. It’s maddening.

“My—master Sasori, slow…” He whines sharply as the wand strokes against his prostate. “Let me…”

“Let you what? It’s not been so long, brat.” Sasori grips the thigh before him and pumps the wand hard in that angle that produced such an endearing noise. “You can’t tell me you’re ready to come yet.”

Just to be sure, though, he glances over his shoulder. And laughs.

Deidara’s eyes are squeezed tight, his tongue trapped between his teeth, fists clenched together and straining against the chakra threads that tie him. A bead of sweat rolls down his throat; when it reaches his collar he tosses his head back and cries out again, a wavering noise that spirals down into the pits of his stomach.

Sasori feels, strangely, something warm in the little bit of flesh that makes up his human core. Despite himself, despite the situation, he smiles and straightens his back, letting Deidara have his vulnerable moment. “Alright, brat, I’ll let you come,” he announces. “Only as long as you thank me, though.”

Straight away, Deidara arches, planting his foot against Sasori’s back, and gasps his name. His wrists strain hard against the chakra strings, but they hold fast, printing red marks in his skin. The wand continues to open him up as a thousand hoarse thank-yous fill the living room.

* * *

When Deidara staggers back into the room, still naked, all the furniture is back in place. Sasori, now wearing Deidara’s too-large green kimono, reclines on the lounge with a worn book.

“My man, you seriously jacked up my back.” Deidara sighs as he pulls his hair into a bun, wandering bow-legged to the lounge. “And my wrists. I’m gonna take the day off because of you.”

“Don’t complain. And put on some clothes.” 

“You’re wearing my clothes.” He sighs gently and flops onto the lounge, half-covering Sasori, then wriggles partway into the untied kimono. With a contented noise, he gently massages the little imprints on his arms.

“Brat.”

“Old man.”

Sometime after midnight, Deidara falls asleep, cheek pressed against the warm patch of skin on Sasori’s chest. A well-maintained nail, as if designed specifically for the purpose, draws lines up and down his back, slowly.


End file.
